


You Will Always Be My Lady

by DarkPhoenix1578



Series: The Dwarf Lord of Winterfell [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Distrust, F/M, Physical Abuse, Pre-Relationship, Regret, Rescue, Reunions, Swearing, Threats of Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 05:09:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3277919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkPhoenix1578/pseuds/DarkPhoenix1578
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SEQUEL TO "BECAUSE YOU ARE MY SON"</p><p>It has been eight months since Tyrion escaped King's Landing and winter has finally come. Forced to stay at an inn during a snowstorm, Tyrion is reunited with Sansa Stark, who he had not expected to find so quickly. Their reunion, however, is hardly happy, considering the misgivings and resentment that lies between them. Saving Sansa from the clutches of leering men will be no problem for the Imp; wanted criminal or not, he is a Lannister. Saving Sansa from herself, however, and convincing her to bear him a son will require more than just words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to my two chapter story, Because You Are My Son. Because this is so explicitly canon divergent, you should probably read my previous story before reading this one.

Winter had finally arrived, just as the Starks had never ceased predicting. The winds were howling like a pack of ghouls thirsting for vengeance and the snow was whisking around in tiny flakes, seemingly harmless but in truth blinding every person who happened to be traveling the moment the cold took hold. Tyrion Lannister happened to be one of those people. Being a dwarf had never had many advantages; in a snowstorm, the _dis_ advantages of being so short were made plainly clear.

Tyrion, wrapped in perhaps the most conspicuous black coat in all of existence, trudged slowly and stiffly through the numbing snow and wind. _The trials of being a dwarf,_ he thought miserably. _Even if this coat is black, I am short enough that no one will see me anyways!_ His stunted legs struggled to move through the rapidly rising piles of snow; at this rate, he would soon be buried!

The day had started out nice enough. Tyrion had recently snuck out of a wagon that had been carrying him up north. This had not been the same wagon that had carried him out of King's Landing. No, Tyrion had been hopping in and off of wagons for the past eight months. It was all very trying, but it was vastly preferable to walking. He had walked for perhaps about a mile, the sun shining cheerfully, the air still cold but tolerable, when a shrieking noise had filled his ears.

At first, Tyrion had thought it was someone crying. And then he saw what appeared to be a wall of snow approaching in the distance. "Oh, fuck me." Tyrion had nearly growled, tightening the straps of his coat as the cold air sharpened in its bitterness and the storm screamed its way to Tyrion. Within minutes, he was surrounding by angry wind and cruel flakes of snow. Winter had indeed come, along with a fury Tyrion was fully unaccustomed to.

Tyrion's slow progress through the snow was altogether infuriating. His cheeks stung from the bitter air, his lips were cracked and bleeding, and his trousers were soaked all the way through with the relentless _cold_ that all the damnable snow forced upon him. If he was a normal man, he would at least be moving at a faster pace and would probably be able to navigate around the snow banks more easily than he could now.

 _To whatever gods that give a shit about prayers,_ Tyrion thought, stuffing his frozen fingers into the deep pockets of his coat, _please show me a sign of whether I am to live through this weather or drop dead at this instance._ It was almost funny, really, when Tyrion walked a few more steps and spotted a house to his left.

Ready to collapse with relief, Tyrion stumbled as quickly as he could through the snow in the direction of the house. It was well built and seemed to be handling the storm well. It was wooden and old, but it was a roof to put one's head under. Tyrion's hand went instinctively to the small sack of money tied at his waist. Most of it was not his, for he had to resort to pickpocketing and stealing in order to keep himself alive. _A thief and a dwarf._ Tyrion snorted. _Father would be so proud._

Tyrion had a good handful of coins left at his disposal, so taking shelter at the house - no, it was an inn - would not be an issue. Walking up to the tattered inn, Tyrion cleared his throat and pushed open the door, silently praising the gods as warmth and the scent of food enveloped him.

Inside it was crowded, filled with men shaking off the snow from the coats, wiping the mud off of their boots, exchanging raucous laughs with each other. Tyrion grimaced as it all stopped and everyone turned to look at him. Eyes were trained on him as he let the door slam shut. Silence hung uncomfortably in the inn. Tyrion could only guess what they were contemplating. _Oh, look, there's the dwarf son of Tywin Lannister who has a bounty on his head._

Tyrion coughed quietly, looking at all the faces around him. Some were incredulous, as if they had never seen such a short man before. Other faces were impassive, barely sending him a second glance. There were two or three, however, that looked mildly alarmed or downright angry. Tyrion swallowed, forcing a smile on his face. "Yes, even short men like me need to find shelter during a storm." he said, beginning to remove his coat.

A large woman moved to greet him. Tall and plump, with two ruby red cheeks and a gracious smile. "You are most welcome here, milord." she said to him, taking his coat from him. "You'll find this place crowded, but you're so short, I'm sure we'll find room for you."

Ordinarily, Tyrion would have laughed at that. Instead, he gave the woman a tight but courteous smile and handed her a few coins. "I can find my way around this place. Thank you." The woman waddled off, the coins jingling in her hands.

Tyrion was surprised and worried that the woman knew who he was. Then again, there were only so many _dwarves_ in the Seven Kingdoms and certainly by now word had gotten out to most towns and villages that Tyrion Lannister, the Demon Monkey, had killed Joffery Baratheon, the Boy King. And perhaps even more sadistic than the Mad King had ever been. Tyrion made his way through the crowd, edging between peoples' legs as he fought his way over to the bar.

Oh, what he would give for a good drink right now.

Before he had gotten far, however, a soft voice called to him.

"My lord?"

He froze, his body turning to ice. He knew that voice. But _surely_ it couldn't be...

Tyrion turned around, his eyes widening as he took in the sight of a very startled looking Sansa Stark.


	2. Chapter Two

Sansa had hoped she would never have to lay eyes on the Imp again. Yet here he was, standing in front of her with wide, surprised eyes, his short hair wet from the still frozen flakes of snow clinging to the strands. The hideous scar the dwarf had received during the Battle of Blackwater Bay still ran across his face; Sansa could only imagine how it must have felt to have a sword slice across your face. The blood that would have undoubtedly seeped from the fresh wound. She cringed inwardly, but forced her face to remain impassive.

"Lady Sansa?" the Imp exclaimed in a soft, incredulous voice. His eyes traveled over her form and Sansa blushed, realizing that she was still wearing the "dress" that her mistress had been so _kind_  to give her. It was a lovely color, a soft pink, but terribly short and it was obvious to her that people could see through the fabric. _A dress for a whore,_ Sansa though nastily to herself. _They all think I'm a whore._ The men in the tavern could no doubt see up the flesh of her thighs. As could Tyrion.

Instead of staring at her, however, Tyrion looked cautiously at her, as if afraid that if he spoke he would frighten her. _I am no longer a child!_ Sansa thought furiously, her cheeks flaming with shame and embarrassment. _After everything I have gone through, he could at least have the decency-_

"My lady," Tyrion spoke to her, interrupting her thoughts. "What are you _doing_ here? And why in the gods' name are you wearing _that?_ "

Sansa replied, "They force me to wear it, my lord." she said, beginning to feel the skin on the back of her neck itch. "My mistress said it would please the men here."

Tyrion stared at her. "And what is the name of your 'mistress', if I may ask?" He sounded very displeased.

"Maela," Sansa answered, glancing to her left to look at the large woman who had greeted Tyrion. She was at the bar, laughing raucously and serving the men drinks, but she caught Sansa's glance and sent her an unfriendly grin. Sansa swallowed. "I...I was with Lord Baelish," she continued, turning her attention back to the Imp. "He promised me he would return me home, but-" The thought of home, of _Winterfell,_ brought dark and painful memories to the surface of her mind. Tears welled in her eyes.

Tyrion noticed her distress. "Now, Sansa," he said kindly. "There is no need to worry yourself over this. I am certain we can discuss this later, in private, where we are away from unwanted eyes." He sent a glare to the man a few feet away from him, who was sitting on a stool with his legs spread, shamelessly eyeing Sansa's body through the dress.

"That would much appreciated, my lord." Sansa whispered, suddenly wishing that she had died with everyone else aboard the ship. _It would be much better to die and be with my mother and father,_ Sansa thought miserably, _rather than be married to a dwarf and be forced to share the company of other unpleasant men._

As always, it seemed that Tyrion knew what she was thinking. His face softened and he approached her, taking one of her hands in his. "Tell me, my lady," he said to her quietly, looking up at her with his mismatched eyes. "Have any of these men touched you?"

Sansa recalled the dozens of men that, in the few weeks she had been here, had squeezed her bottom and whispered perverted words in her ear, of what they wanted to do with her. She flushed. "No, my lord, but they want to. They might."

"They won't." Tyrion said flatly, clearing his throat and looking directly at the lady Sansa had mentioned. Maela. "I will make sure of that. Please, excuse me, my lady." Sansa didn't even bother to curtsy as the dwarf waddled off to meet with Maela, a scowl twisted on his deformed face. _It makes him look all the part of a monster,_ Sansa thought.

She made a move to sit down in one of the empty stools, but the man who had been staring at her called for her. "Wench," he said in low voice. Sansa glanced at him, taking in his nearly bald head, the scruff on his chin, the tongue swiping across his lips. She wanted to retch. "If you can' find a seat, my lap's always available."

Sansa felt her insides twist uncomfortably. "Thank you, but I have a seat right here." She sat down on the stool, purposefully directing her head away from the man.

There was the sudden scrap of a chair and a rough hand was gripping her arm. Sansa glanced up in fright as the man growled at her. "When a man gives a lady an offer, the lady _accepts._ " He then pulled Sansa against him. She gasped, her cheeks blossoming into two red circles as she felt the man's manhood grind against her.

"No!" she cried, but the man didn't listen and forced his lips on hers. They were chapped and his mouth smelled of ale and tobacco. She struggled against him, whimpering as he thrust his tongue inside her mouth.

"Release her this instant!" Tyrion's voice roared. The inn, for the second time, fell eerily silent. The man removed his mouth from Sansa's and let out a harsh bark of laughter as he saw the dwarf striding awkwardly towards him.

"I don' take orders from a _dwarf."_ he sneered, continuing to hold Sansa to him. "Besides, this one is _mine."_

Sansa twisted her head around to give Tyrion a desperate look. His eyes caught her for a moment and Sansa was startled at the vivid emotion swirling in them.

"She is actually mine." Tyrion snapped. "She is my _wife!"_

The man roared with laughter again, his hand roaming to squeeze Sansa's butt. She squirmed in his grip, wanting to reach out and slap the man's scruffy face. "This one here? Married to you?" He slapped Sansa's ass and she jerked, feeling her eyes burning with fear and shame. "I don't think so."

Sansa watched Tyrion's worried and angry face suddenly change into something terrifying. His mismatched eyes darkened and his lips turned down fiercely. "Do you know who I am?" he said, surprisingly quietly and calmly. The man's smile faltered.

"Who are ye?" he said, thrusting his chin out.

Tyrion's lips curved into a menacing smirk. "I am Tyrion, son of Tywin Lannister. I am the Imp. The Demon Monkey. The man who murdered _your king._ "

The inn was deathly silent, the witnesses to this exchange staring in shock, horror, and apprehension at the calm but rigid form of the dwarf before them. The man's smile was gone now and he had suddenly paled.

"My lord father ordered me to marry that girl you have in your arms. And I swore I would protect her. So unless you would like to have your head decorating one of the pikes in King's Landing, you will _release my wife."_

The man still did not release Sansa and she could feel a lump bubbling in her throat. _Gods, strike me dead!_ she moaned to herself. _Let this be done with already!_

"Why should I believe you?" the man stammered. "You're...you're a criminal! There's a reward for your head!"

"Oh, is that what you think?" Tyrion replied, snorting in derision. "My lord father has commanded me to head for Winterfell. I am to become lord of Winterfell. Truly, I can send a raven with a letter and confirm of this all now. I am sure he would be delighted to hear that one of his sons was killed by a common man like yourself. Reward? No. The reward you would receive would be a sword to _your_ head."

At that the man released Sansa and she immediately walked over to Tyrion, who stared at her worriedly. "Are you alright, my lady?" he asked her.

But Sansa was no longer listening. _He's heading for Winterfell,_ she thought, her heart suddenly filled with intense home. "Can you take me home?" she whispered.

 


	3. Chapter Three

_Home,_ Tyrion thought as he followed Sansa to the room that had been arranged for them to have. _Of course she wants to go home._ If he were to be honest with himself, a part of him had hoped that Sansa would have at least pretended to be happy to see him. Then again, the poor girl had spend so much of her time pretending while she was trapped in King's Landing that she probably thought there was no use pretending anymore.

Their footsteps echoed in the dimly lit halls of the inn, wooden floors creaking just as much as the walls were from the screaming wind outside. Tyrion observed Sansa as they walked. She never once looked at him, her gaze set straight out in front of her. Her posture was rigid and tense. Every now and then, Tyrion would hear a soft, almost unnoticeable, sigh pass from her lips. _It is almost like she expects me to harass her, too._ Tyrion mused to himself, the realization causing a sting of hurt to implant itself in his chest.

They finally came to a stop at the very end of the hall. It was the room closest to the back exit, Tyrion realized, where it was undoubtedly colder and more miserable. For a brief second, he felt a great desire to march back into the tavern and strangle someone. The feeling was so sudden and intense that Tyrion did not realize his face was contorting again until he saw Sansa's nervous gaze. Shame replaced anger. _Yes,_ he thought sarcastically, _make her more afraid of you. You truly are a demon monkey in her eyes._

The room was small and cramped; there was a tiny dressed in the far corner of the room, a dusty and cracked mirror beside it. The floors were just as dirty and appeared as though they hadn't been swept in ages. There was a single bed, which looked more than adequate for two people. Tyrion could feel his face burning and supposed Sansa was feeling perhaps even more uncomfortable.

When they were both in the room, Tyrion shut the door behind, dreading the conversation that they would have to have. _Yes,_ Tyrion thought sadly, _I can take you home, but if I do, you must give me a child._

Sansa turned to him. Her face was white like the snow pummeling the inn at that very moment. Guilt surged in Tyrion's stomach. She hated their marriage. More importantly, she hated _him._ If she had been arranged to marry Loras Tyrell or any other _good looking_ man, then perhaps she would have been happier. Instead, she was paired with him. Instead, she would be forced to give the Demon Monkey a child and not the Knight of Flowers.

"My lord," Sansa began, her voice trembling slightly. She was looking at him, though. _That's a start, I suppose,_ Tyrion thought. "I...I am glad you are unharmed."

"Are you?" Tyrion pondered aloud, suddenly wishing he had a great mug of wine with him. "It seems to me that you were more than happy to run off with Ser Dontos while I lay festering in a cell, wondering where on earth my wife could have been?"

Sansa flinched, her eyes casting downwards at the floor. Tyrion knew he was being unfair, but now all the memories of realizing that Sansa, his _wife_ \- Stark or not - had abandoned him when he needed a friend the most, was grinding shards of glass within him. He sighed loudly, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I know that you hate my family. I am sorry for what they have done to your mother and your father and brothers. But _I_ am and have been as much of an outcast as you are. And I would appreciate it if you could at least pretend not to hate me." Tears were burning at his eyes. _Oh, fuck it, not this again._ "It would be nice to have someone not hate me for once. For being a Lannister. And for being a dwarf."

Sansa was quiet. Tyrion watched as she fiddled with her fingers worriedly. "I thought Lord Baelish was going to bring me to the Eyrie," she confessed. "But then he tried to...to coerce me into sleeping with him and I told him no. I made excuses, saying that I was married. He didn't like that much, said that I was as cruel and indifferent towards love as my mother was. And he dropped me off a few miles from this inn. Maela found me and brought me here. Said I could stay here as long as I pleased the men who stopped by."

Tyrion listened. Despite his resentment, his chest still panged for Sansa. _All she ever wanted was a happily ever after. Now she knows those do not exist._

"I didn't have to sleep with any of them," Sansa finished, "but she keeps giving me looks. Soon I think she will try and force me to sleep with one of them."

Tyrion's anger reignited. "Not while I stay under this roof." he said sternly. "You are my wife. It is my duty to make sure you are safe and are not in harm's way." He stood up and came over to Sansa, taking her hand in his. "I promised you one thing, Sansa." he said more softly. "I promised I would never hurt you. I intend to keep that promise, no matter how much you may detest me." He removed his hands from hers, walking towards a lonely chair in the far corner of the room. He sat in it, wincing at the squeak it made as he sat down. _A broken chair for a broken man._ "Please take the bed, Sansa." he said to her. He was not ready to have the "conversation". "A dwarf like me doesn't need a bed so large. This chair will suit me fine."

Unsurprisingly, Sansa said nothing about that. She sat on the bed, her hands moving across the covers. Tyrion watcher her silently, feeling an irrational sense of irritation and jealousy at the bed sheets. _Even they are better looking than me,_ he thought bitterly. _As are most things, it seems._


	4. Chapter Four

Sansa could not sleep. She lay in the bed made for two, still wearing her short dress, for there was no sleepwear to be found in the entire inn. She had asked Maela about it, but the woman had said the only available pairs were ones permanently stained by certain activities. Sansa declined to wear those.

She sat up in bed, wiping the grogginess from her eyes. It was only a few hours since she had first reunited with Tyrion, if it could be called a reunion at all. Sansa found seeing the Imp again to be awkward and confusing. She was well aware he would never wish harm upon her and was doing his duty as a faithful husband. She could appreciate his kindness and his wit. Sansa looked at Tyrion's form on the floor. The chair had been too hard - and too squeaky, for that matter - for Tyrion to sleep upon, so he had changed to the floor, where he now lay sprawled out. _He looks dreadfully uncomfortable,_ Sansa thought, guilt and regret swelling inside of her.

She got up from her bed, wincing as her feet touched the cold, bare floor. She tip-toed her way over to Tyrion, who lay shivering slightly on the floor. For a moment, Sansa just stared, her ears listening to the shrieking wind outside. Her cheeks began to burn when she realized it would probably be nice if she invited him to sleep in her bed. She cringed at the thought of sharing a bed with _him,_ but then again, winter had come. And she couldn't really afford to be rude to her husband, who by all means could have had her executed for leaving him like she did.

She knelt down beside Tyrion, chewing her lip as she struggled to decide whether to wake him or not. The dwarf was shivering, his ugly face scrunched in a tight frown as he slept. _He's probably having a bad dream,_ Sansa concluded as she placed a gentle but trembling hand on his shoulder. And then he moaned, "Shae."

Sansa froze, her heart jerking wildly inside her chest. _Shae?_ she thought, thoroughly confused. _Why would he be dreaming about Shae?_ Sansa briefly remembered her handmaiden and the short friendship they had created together before Shae suddenly and unexpectedly disappeared.

Sansa stared at the Imp - at her _husband -_ as he whispered the name of another woman. It should not have stung her as much as it did, but she felt a cold prickling of anger in her chest. Shae...had Shae been his...had she been the one he loved? _It would make sense,_ a voice taunted at her, _How could he love a northern traitor? Did you honestly expect him to care about you beyond duty?_

Sansa stopped chewing her lip. It didn't matter. That was in the past. He had come to find her, the reason of which Sansa still needed to learn. She would most likely learn of it on the morrow. Summoning up what shreds of courage she still might have, she gently shook Tyrion by the shoulder. "My lord," Sansa whispered, feeling irrationally worried that he might wake up and yell at her. _He's not Joffery,_ she reminded herself. "Tyrion, wake up." she said in a slightly louder voice.

After a moment, the man underneath her hand stirred with a small groan. His mismatched eyes opened and he stared at her with puzzlement and concern. "Sansa?" he answered tiredly, seeming to stifle a yawn. "Is something the matter?"

Sansa had no idea what to say. She felt lost and confused as she tried to think of something to say. "I'm sorry I was so rude earlier," she blurted out as words began to form in her head. She flushed at her lack of composure. "I...you looked cold and uncomfortable on the floor and...and I wanted to wake you and tell you that you may sleep in o-the bed, if it please you."

Tyrion blinked, looking surprised. "Well, a bed is certainly more preferable to a stone tiled floor, but I did not think you would wish for me to be so close to you, considering..." he broke off awkwardly. Sansa looked away, her cheeks now feeling like they were going to have a permanent red stain on them.

"I did think that," Sansa replied quietly, "but I don't think it's very fair of me to make you lie on the floor alone. It is very cold out and...and you are my husband. I should learn to sleep in a bed with you. It is my duty as your wife."

Tyrion stared at her intently. Sansa could not make out his exact expression, but she watched as Tyrion let out a long sigh. "I will not share your bed, my lady," he said rather pointedly, "until you truly want me to."

Suddenly, Sansa was filled with exasperation. "I do want you to!" she replied, her eyes flashing at him. "In fact, I command it. You will go lay in that bed with me so that you don't freeze on the floor! What would I do with a frozen dwarf for a husband?" As soon as those words flew from her mouth, Sansa blanched and looked away in horror. "...My lord, I did not mean-"

Tyrion was laughing, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "If you wish it, my lady," he said with a chuckle. "I do suppose I would be of little use to you frozen." He slowly picked himself off the floor. Sansa rose with him, mentally berating herself for her foolish choice of words.

Sansa walked over to the bed, feeling incredibly self conscious. Her dress was short and she knew that as she slipped back into bed, it rose up her thighs, revealing quite a bit too much skin. _Oh, what would Septa Mordane think of this whole situation._ Sansa groaned to herself. She refused to look at Tyrion as he climbed into bed with a grunt.

Once they were both covered underneath the blankets, Sansa finally looked over at him. He was looking back at her with his mismatched eyes. "What are you doing?" she asked, not entirely sure what to make of his staring.

"I'm studying you." he answered with a small sigh.

"Am I one of your books now?" Sansa said and was startled to realize she had just made a joke. With the Imp. It should have not been a big deal to her, but she had always been uncomfortable in Tyrion's presence to one degree or another.

Tyrion chuckled. "No, you are not. But you puzzle me, Sansa, as many people do. I look at you and I marvel at how very long it has been for you. Being held captive at King's Landing. Never having a moment for yourself." He blinked, looking at her with a very direct gaze. "I cannot imagine how that must have been for you."

Sansa swallowed, struck by the intensity of his gaze and the seriousness of his voice. His concern was genuine and that by far moved her more than his words. Tyrion actually cared for her, a _Lannister._ Perhaps the only Lannister to actually have a heart.

"I imagine it must have been difficult for you as well, my lord." Sansa replied softly, turning on her side. Tyrion did the same, eyes still studying her. "Having an entire family of obnoxious, golden haired brats who hate you."

Tyrion half smiled. "You are blunt. And yes. It has been difficult. Especially with Cersei. May she kiss my royal ass."

Sansa couldn't help but giggle. "I hear," she said with a smirk, "that Jaime's already beat you to that."

Tyrion laughed loudly at that, his face crinkling. Sansa found he did not look so ugly when he laughed. _I should make him laugh more,_ she thought.

"Indeed, I guess he has." Tyrion said, still smiling. "I don't believe I have ever heard you say so many jokes, my lady."

Sansa's own smile softened. "I haven't been around many people who would take kindly to my jokes."

"Ah, yes," Tyrion said with a mocking frown, "Joffery, and my _father_ for that matter, would take great offense, I imagine."

They were quiet for a moment, listening to the hurricane of snow bombarding the inn. Sansa spoke again. "Are you...are you really going to Winterfell?"

Tyrion's face sobered immediately. His eyes darted away from Sansa's for a moment. In the blink of an eye, the dwarf was suddenly looking incredibly awkward. "You aren't, are you?" Sansa said, feeling her heart plummet.

"No, I am, my lady." Tyrion told her, eyes looking up at her again. "But...I suppose I should tell you something. Before you get too happy."

Sansa swallowed. "What is it, my lord?"

"My lord father," Tyrion began, "has offered to give me a royal pardon."

"Well, that's good, isn't it?" Sansa interrupted, deciding that she did not want to hear what Tyrion had to say after all.

"It would be." Tyrion answered. He looked at her with sad eyes. "But I need to get you pregnant first."


End file.
